With the Sky Beneath Our Feet
by TheDaughterBox
Summary: Your name is Roy Harper, and you've been away for awhile. When Clone!Roy busts Real!Roy out of his tube, and no one will admit that nothing is ok. Slight Jade/Roy.


A/N: Written in second person. Meant to have more Roy/Kaldur than it actually does. Meant to be longer than it actually is.

Meant to be a lot of things more, actually.

* * *

Glass breaking. A gush of water.

Freedom.

...

You gasp as you hit the floor, cool like the back the of your mother's hand used to be. Things register to you in pieces. The air, clinical and barren. Glass shards, poking and ripping at your skin in jagged sameness. Fluid. Lots of fluid, everywhere. In your eyes, in your lungs, in your brain; pooling around you, trying to drown you.

You sit up.

A man leans on a dull chrome table, assessing you with a frown. Blood drips down through the knuckles of his left hand onto the floor. Inexplicably, you feel loss; you hope that someone will come and clean up all this blood and glass and wetness off these cold shiny floors; who is going to clean this all up?

"I assume you have a lot of questions." The man says finally, and that's when you realize suddenly that hey, he kind of looks like you. Same hair. Same build. Same eyes, staring down at you expectantly…

Oh. He's waiting for you to say something. You coax your mouth to open. "I… guess…" You croak out. A shiver goes up your spine. Your voice sounds way deeper than it did yesterday…

You test out this strange new voice again. " What happened? Who are you?"

He doesn't answer, only glares vaguely off into some spot above your head.

"A friend." He says after a minute, and his pupils are blackened pinpoints as they focus in on your face. "Can you walk?"

"I think." You stagger to your feet, only to have you have your knees buckle against your weight and will.

"Hey," The man who looks like you rushes forward, catching you before you crash back into the floor, back into the mess that no one's coming to clean. "Take it easy." He breathes, and that's when you look over and find that you no longer have a right arm.

...

Your memories come back in fragments, specks of white lint on the black felt that has become your mind.

You were running. Jumping. Falling.

There was a girl. She was your age, maybe a little older. Pretty, with a sly smile.

She messed you up.

Badly.

A blackout. A table. Steel on bone. A bandage, crisp white.

Hoping that Ollie would come. Praying that Ollie would come.

And then nothing. Darkness.

…You guess Ollie never ended up coming.

...

From the roof of your universe, you try to sort out all the thoughts in your head. Ollie had a fancy name for it, when your back was against the wall and you needed to take stock of a situation. When you needed to clear the anger out of your head. (_You're so angry_, Ollie had told him. _Why are you so angry?)_

On second thought, maybe Ollie just called it _taking stock_; you aren't quite sure anymore.

...

Fact: Your name is Roy Harper.

Fact: Your code name is Speedy. Or at least used to be.

Question: Where are you?

You are in- (your heart skips two beats, where are you exactly, can you remember, you can't remember-) Dubai. (A breath. A sigh of relief.) You are on a hotel balcony in Dubai, watching the lights of the city flicker like stars and lighting bugs below you.

Question: What are you doing here?

You glance back over your shoulder through the sliding doors, as a man that is you but isn't (A clone. _Your _clone. Like a bad sci-fi movie or something.) makes some calls. A good number of calls. He won't tell you who he is calling. He won't tell you much of anything really.

Question: Are you safe?

You hear a thump, the cracking of pottery. A throaty shouting. A snap of a cellphone being splintered.

Repeat: Are you safe?

You aren't quite sure.

...

The new arm is dull and mechanic. You test it out, flexing the robotic fingers. It makes a faint clanking sound, the sound of gears meshing together.

"It's not much," He says, sighing. "But it's a start."

"How'd you manage to get this?" You ask him, and he shrugs.

"A trade." He refuses to say more.

...

You have to relearn things, big and little. How to walk without a limp. How to keep down solid food. How to speak to others in a manner that doesn't suggest you've been locked in a tube for the last three years.

How to hold a bow and arrow.

...

Your new best friend moves his base of operations to first Shanghai, then Tokyo, then a collection of islands you can't even name. He takes you with him for every stop along his tour. You become his shadow, playing lookout and failsafe as he fights his way through Asia's underground. You stay and clean up his messes as he charges on ahead, like you once did for Ollie - being the sidekick that you are.

(If this isn't ironic, you don't know what is.)

...

The motel room smells like sweat and cheap perfume and bile, but then again, you've smelled a lot worse.

The girl you picked up is surprising unassuming for a hooker. She didn't ask once about the scars, or the slight amount of sobbing you did during, and curled up on your chest afterwards like a little puppy or something. When you had rolled up your sleeve (_What are you, a vampire or something_, she had laughed. _It's too hot to be wearing that. Too sticky._) and she'd seen your arm, your _different_ arm, she had just given a shake of her black hair and said _cool_. That's all. _Cool_.

The moonlight streaks through the filthy window, and you can't help but think how much you love Thailand.

...

Concrete rubble flies from under your feet, and again you are running. Lights and smog swirl below you as tea leaves do, and the blood pumps through your veins like it hasn't in years. You are the chased, the fallen, the hunted. The world spins out on your axis, confusing the sea from the ground from the stars in the sky as you make an impossible jump.

You brace for impact, for Mother Pavement to backhand you like the sniveling child that you are, when there is a jolt, a pause. A hand reaches and plucks you from the air.

Her smile is a painted line now, but not any less sly.

...

Rope burns. You forgot how much it hurt, being tied to a chair, scorching burning ropes cutting into your skin. (_At least it's better than a saw, _you think. _Better than whispers of glass and shots of darkness._)

"Goddamnit." The man with your eyes in his face strains and shudders against his own bindings. He squints through the dim light of the warehouse, searching. "Cheshire!" He slurs. "Jade!" A ghostly laugh follows the echoes of his voice. "Jade, you get down here and fight me like a fucking man!" His brow creases. "Man… woman… whatever! Just get your ass where I can see it." When it's clear that she isn't coming, he slumps into his lap, face pressing against his knees.

"Is this the kind of trade you were talking about?" You say quietly, and he glares at you from out the corner of his eye.

...

(Later she'll come and undo his ropes and yours. Much later. She'll mummer in your ear that _you should probably run, and run fast, and by the way_- she kisses you on the cheek- _I like your new arm. Very … _she searches for the word. _Cool, yeah? _She laughs, small and unassuming.)

(As you bound across rooftops, you realize that you hate Thailand with a passion.)

...

"She likes you." Nursing his beer, he says it like it's the end of the universe. "That's what saved our hides." He bangs his fist down on the counter, making the other bar patrons give a slight jump.

You grunt out a "fuck" and play with the springs that comprise your wrist.

...

You wake up to him sitting on the edge of your cot. His eyes look soulless as they bear down at you, and you actually really hope that your eyes don't that too because _fuck that is creepy_.

"Can I help you?" You growl, and he continues to stare. "Well?"

"You feel like giving the girls and boys back home a heart attack?" And he holds up a beaten down communicator. The distress signal flashes an eerie blue glow across the walls, and you think of cut wires, of circuit boards and dead electricity. "Well?" He echoes you, and you suddenly hate him for it.

"Eh." You respond, but then you stagger out of the bed and start fumbling with your pants, and that's all the answer he needs.

...

They're called The Team. Really. Truly. Simply. The Team.

They fight hard and fast and efficiently, but this time it isn't good enough alone. He charges in, bow raised high, with you swooping in after. They all seem grateful for his help, or maybe just his presence.

You, on the other hand, are a ghost.

As you glide on through, you recognize a few of them. Barely though. Robin's grown. Kid Flash strikes you as less of an idiot than before. And Aqualad's…

...

(Fact: Your name is Roy Harper, and you've been away for awhile.)

...

The fighting is over and done with, and they are all still looking at you like you're a ghost.

"This is him?" Robin asks the Not-You quietly. Disbelieving.

In response, he gives a curt nod.

Everyone stands there awkwardly, trying and failing at not staring at the mass of metal and wire at your side. Finally, Kid Flash breaks the silence. "What happened…?" He gestures awkwardly.

You simply cross your arms- _both of them- _across your chest, and raise your chin in defiance.

...

Your dreams that night are wild and dark, as inky black cave becomes inky black hair becomes inky black tube becomes the red lipped smile of a cat.

You don't know what this means, and don't care to know.

...

The defiant look is still across your face when you first see Ollie. With a red face and bloodshot eyes, he runs to you in slow motion. You hold your ground.

Question: Are you safe now?

Ollie has almost reached you, is closing in. Most of the League members have dots of wetness in the corners of their eyes.

Repeat: Are you safe?

The man with your face looks on with something akin to contempt. The girl's laugh rumbles through your ears, a tinkling roar.

Repeat: _Are you safe?_

You really still aren't sure.


End file.
